Miles
My eyes fluttered open to the soft, unwelcome glow of morning sunlight spilling through the muslin curtains. It was gentler than usual, as if it was trying to break the news delicately: I had overslept.
6:40 AM.
Forty minutes late.
That may seem negligible to some—to people who drink from mismatched coffee mugs and wear socks with holes in them—but for me, it was nothing short of catastrophic. My entire day was already behind. The dominoes had already begun to fall. I lay there for a moment, blinking up at the ceiling, the guilt seeping in slowly, like a tea stain on crisp linen.
Topper stirred from the foot of the bed, thumping his tail in sleepy approval as I finally peeled back the covers. My joints groaned slightly as I sat up. God, even my body was disappointed in me. I didn’t need a hangover—my internal disappointment was punishment enough.
I had intended to stop at two martinis last night. Maybe even just one, originally. But when Hudson Knight parked himself beside me, all smug grins and wounded charm, something in me buckled. Each word from his mouth was like a small, calculated shove against my composure. He was grating. Annoying. Cocky. And strangely magnetic.
So, I had another martini.
And then one more after that.
And now here I was—forty minutes late to my routine, my energy completely off, my rhythm thrown out of sync like a record needle skipping over a groove. I didn’t even want to check my to-do list. It would mock me.
Still, I had to recalibrate somehow. If I didn’t reclaim this morning, the whole day would unravel like a cheap spool of thread.
I padded down the hallway barefoot, cool floorboards tapping against my soles. The house was quiet in that sacred, pre-coffee silence. The only sound was the distant, lazy hum of the waves rolling against the shore. I stepped out to the back patio, Topper following behind me like a little soldier, and breathed in the morning air.
Salt. Ocean. A trace of something floral from the fully blossomed hydrangeas.
I needed to run. I needed to move. To sweat. To reset.
I changed into my running clothes—a crisp pair of navy blue shorts, a soft heather-gray tee that clung a little too well, and my favorite pair of Hoka sneakers that practically whispered “Type A”
with every step. I stretched on the deck for precisely five minutes, even though I usually stretched for ten. But time was short now. Everything was shortened.
At 7:30 AM, I finally hit Ocean Drive, earbuds tucked in, a carefully arranged playlist humming something ambient and wordless. I didn’t want lyrics. I had too many words in my head already.
My legs moved with mechanical precision at first, guided more by muscle memory than energy. Each stride, each breath, was a protest against the sluggishness I carried like an unwanted guest. I hated feeling like this—out of sync and behind schedule.
The morning was already well underway. Couples in matching fleece were walking their dogs, early risers were nursing paper cups of coffee while sitting on benches, and the beach cleanup crews were already doing their slow crawl down the shoreline with rakes and buckets.
As my feet pounded the familiar trail of Gordon’s Pond in Cape Henlopen State Park, my mind wandered—against my will—back to last night.
The piano. The martinis. The dim lights and Billie Holiday standards.
And Hudson.
That kiss.
What had he been thinking? Was it the vodka that moved him or something else? Did he feel something? Did I?
I could still feel the phantom trace of his lips—warm, unhurried, surprisingly soft. The kind of kiss that wasn’t calculated or performative. The kind that didn’t ask for anything in return.
And it had startled me.
I’d pulled away. I’d told myself it was too soon, and maybe it was. But the smirk on my face right now—yes, I was aware of it—suggested that perhaps, just perhaps, I didn’t mind it as much as I pretended.
The wind kicked up slightly as I looped around the pond and turned back toward Ocean Drive, the sun now brighter, the town coming to life.
I tried—truly tried—to clear my mind.
But Hudson had a way of sticking around. Not just in person, loud and flashy as he was—but in thought. In memory. In smirks and kisses and the glint of a martini glass catching candlelight.
I had come to Rehoboth to reset, to reflect, to retreat—not to flirt with fame or stumble into complications in tight jeans and aviators. And yet, here I was. Disoriented. Forty minutes late. And smiling like an idiot on mile two.
It kills me to admit—but kissing Hudson wasn’t entirely awful.
I returned from my run slightly more flushed than usual, sweat clinging to my temple as I opened the fridge and reached for the carafe of iced coffee I’d brewed yesterday. Cold. Strong. Just the way I liked it. I filled a glass, added a splash of oat milk, and gave it a gentle swirl before padding barefoot toward the upper deck with Topper trailing me, nails clicking on the hardwood like a tiny metronome.
The morning sun had only just crested above the dunes, casting the deck in soft gold. The breeze from the ocean still held that hint of crispness, the kind that would be burned off by midmorning but felt, for now, refreshing. I set my coffee down on the teak side table and unfolded the throw blanket I kept draped over the wicker lounge chair. Old habits. Even in summer, I couldn’t resist layering.
I settled in with my tablet, brushing a lock of damp hair from my forehead and tapping open the news—just the headlines today. I didn’t have the stomach for a full doom scroll. After a few swipes, I moved on to my social media dashboard. A little self-indulgent, yes, but I told myself it was for brand upkeep.
There it was: my carousel post from yesterday titled Rehoboth Retreat Day 2.
The comments were… well, flattering:
@SpiceRackSue: I swear you live in a Crate & Barrel catalog, and I am HERE for it.
@DapperDan: Adopt me, please. I’ll sleep in the pantry.
@ChefCarlosDC: That swordfish was pornographic. I showed my husband. We fought.
@OrderlyObsession: This retreat is my Roman Empire.
I chuckled into my iced coffee, letting the cool bitterness pull me back into focus. That’s when I saw it—buried among brand partnerships and fan messages—a new DM notification.
From @HudsonKnight_Official.
I blinked twice.
Hudson Knight. Two-point-four million followers. Hollywood’s favorite wild card. And here I was, still manually tagging local cheese shops and color-coding my spice rack on IG Reels.
I tapped the message.
@HudsonKnight_Official:
Hey. I know last night was… well, unexpected. But I wanted to say thanks for the walk. And the conversation. You’re kind of annoyingly refreshing, you know that? Also… sorry if the kiss was too much. If you never want to talk to me again, I get it. But if you do, I’d love to see you again—maybe when I’m not limping like a wounded gazelle? On a different note, I’m kind of starving right now. Not usually a breakfast kind of guy, but I have an itch for some today. Any recommendations on places to go in town?
I stared at the message, heart quietly thudding.
He mentioned the kiss. He apologized for the kiss.
I didn’t even know what shocked me more—his honesty or the fact that it read like something genuine, not the PR-polished fluff celebrities usually pump out. I sat back in my chair, iced coffee forgotten for a moment as Topper curled up at my feet.
I thought about playing it safe. Recommending Egg or Somewhere. Both are popular breakfast and brunch spots in town. Maybe even Rise Up if he was feeling hipster enough for locally roasted beans and vegan banana bread.
But the words that came out were braver than I felt.
@InOrder:
Egg and Somewhere are great, but honestly… nothing beats the breakfast I cook. I was just about to start whipping something up. If you’re interested in joining, the offer’s open.
I paused. Reread it.
And chose not to mention the kiss. Best to… pretend it never happened, for both of our sakes.
Still, I hovered over the send button for a full five seconds before I tapped it.
Sent.
I exhaled. He probably wouldn’t even see it for hours. He was famous. He had people. He—
A notification buzzed.
@HudsonKnight_Official:
That sounds awesome. I can be over whenever.
Wait… what?
I quickly typed back.
@InOrder:
Come over in about an hour. Gives me time to prepare.
Instantly, he replied.
@HudsonKnight_Official:
Sounds good. See you soon.
My iced coffee suddenly didn’t feel strong enough. I stood up with a jolt, nearly knocking over the side table, and rushed inside. Topper trotted after me, confused by the sudden burst of energy.
I had exactly sixty minutes.
First, the shower. Then, the table.
I already had the menu in my head—a mental mise en place I’d rehearsed in case I ever had to serve an unexpected breakfast to a celebrity guest who kissed me on the beach after three martinis.
French omelets. Light and silky. Just eggs, cream, butter, and technique. Herbed potatoes—crispy, browned, with fresh rosemary and thyme. Crisp prosciutto in place of bacon. Fruit salad with lime zest and mint. Mini croissants, warmed. And, of course, mimosas. Classic and blood orange. With a chilled bottle of Brut, I had been saving for… something.
I flung open the linen drawer.
Ironed napkins? Check.
Pale blue ceramic plates? Check.
My best glassware for the mimosas? Double check.
The man had over two million followers and had likely eaten breakfast with royalty. But he hadn’t eaten breakfast here, with me as the host.
I smirked to myself, sleeves rolled up, heart racing in a way that was less anxiety and more… anticipation.
“Let’s knock his socks off, ,”
I muttered aloud as I lined the mimosa glasses on a tray.
Topper sneezed in agreement.